


September Song

by Latha0507



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Love, Self-Discovery, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latha0507/pseuds/Latha0507
Summary: In that moment, as she met Draco's unflinching grey eyes, all she could remember was her mother's words, whispered to her after the night's storm had flattened the sapling she had spent weeks nurturing-"Because that’s the funny thing, honey, you can spend years and years growing a plant, but one storm, one cut, one pluck - and it’s all gone."It's all gone.





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is my first foray into writing Dramione fanfiction, and just my second overall in life. I'm a serious FF lurker, and I'm pretty sure I've read just about all the good ones. But I've always had this tiny niggle of an idea in the back of my head. I've tried finding it in other stories, but since I couldn't, I thought I'd just write it out of my head. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing in the HP universe. All of this belongs to the Queen herself - J.K. Rowling. I'm merely a lost little law student trying desperately to put pen to paper and hoping the result isn't too shabby. Sorry for the errors, if any!

 

* * *

It’s funny how your entire world can tilt in a second.

That’s all it takes – _one second_.

And life as you know it disappears.

 

* * *

 

December, 2004:

Hermione Granger hears Ginny Weasley before she sees her and her heart skips a beat at the impending reunion. She has to look twice to ascertain Ginny’s actually here; the next moment curly brown hair tangles with fiery red.

The two witches separate and Ginny smiles at her the way only Ginny can – mocking, but full of affection. Hermione’s all the more grateful – she knows how hard it is for Ginny to be here. Hermione loves Harry, she does, but she _misses_ Ginny. She misses her laughter and her vitriol-spewing mouth and her rebellious attitude. It’s been entirely too long since Hermione’s seen the witch last, and she knows this was inevitable, but it pricks nonetheless. Hermione has always stood beside Harry, but she never wants Ginny to think she’s not there for her either. The problem with messy break-ups, however, is that often both individuals feel exactly that – that friends will take sides, and it won’t be theirs. Hermione doesn’t know whose side she’s on; she just knows she can’t lose either Harry or Ginny. She refuses to. Which is why Ginny’s presence is somewhat of a surprise to Hermione, who was sure the witch would give her engagement party a miss.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. There’s no one I would miss this for – I have a brilliantly horrible speech to make, after all,” Ginny says, her eyes twinkling in a way that Hermione knows indicates she’s up to no good.

“Ginny, whatever you’re planning, drop it. Today’s not the day - or the crowd. Trust me.” Hermione knows neither will dissuade Ginny from delivering a speech chock-full of expletives and dirty anecdotes, but she tries regardless. Truth be told, she’s counting on Ginny to make this event a little more exciting. If one more Pureblood High-Society couple tries to talk to Hermione about her wedding dress, and the “clichéd white Muggle nature” of it, she’s sure she’ll leave the venue a lot more disliked.

“Pssh! I’m a Weasley, Hermione. I specialize in disappointing Purebloods. It’s the one thing I’ve looked forward to for weeks. Don’t even think of taking that away from me!”

Hermione’s eyes crinkle in a huge smile, despite herself. Once again, she’s thankful Ginny will be up there with her, easing her into the day with her crude jokes and lewd comments. Before she can respond, Ginny leans toward her and whispers loudly, “Are you sure about this? It’s still not too late, you know. You can still be a honorary Weasley. No need to marry that peacock over there.”

“That peacock would be very thankful if you would just go and start draining the bar already, Ginevra. We all know that’s why you turned up today,” drawls Draco Malfoy, coming to a stop next to Hermione, his hand barely stationing itself on her lower back.

“Oh please, Malfoy. As if I would dare enter this party without being sufficiently drunk already.”

As Hermione gasps out a general admonishment of “Ginny, don’t tell me you’re drunk right now!”, Ginny cackles and makes herself sparse amidst the admittedly snooty women and men milling around.

“Would you stop goading her? Believe me, you don’t want a drunk Ginny talking to a room full of well-mannered statues who frown upon public displays of emotions.”

“As if she needs any goading – fuck! Don’t fucking pinch me, Granger!” Draco mutters, glaring at her while rubbing at the spot.

“Don’t provoke her today, Draco. It’s hard enough for her to be here. Please don’t make it worse,” she pleads with him, knowing Draco wouldn’t miss a single opportunity to rile Ginny up, even if that spelled doom for his own engagement party.

His eyes soften, and he nods at her, lifting a hand to brush some hair away from her face. Sometimes Draco looks at her with this unreadable expression, and Hermione doesn’t know what to make of it. Neither of them are very vocal about their feelings, but they’re generally aware enough to understand what mood the other is in. But when Draco gets this particular pensive look, she’s always thrown for a loop. In the past, she’s tried asking him what he’s thinking of at that moment, but in typical Draco fashion he just always ignored her and changed the subject. No amount of poking and prodding will ever melt his resolve to keep his little secrets, however, so she swallows her curiosity and lets him. _She knows how to compromise, thank you very much._

She feels a sudden tug on her arm, and turns to see Ron looking at her with a somewhat panicked expression. “Hermione, I need to talk to you. Now.”

“Weasley, do you have to disturb me every time you find me at peace? I know you’re obsessed with me - ”

“Fuck off, Malfoy! Hermione, a word. Now!”

Hermione looks at Ron’s frazzled face again. He hasn’t looked away from her since he first interrupted them. It’s almost like he can’t bear to look at Draco. She’s surprised by his hostility too – he ad Draco are actually friendly enough to exchange banter usually, but he seems uncharacteristically angry at him today.

“Ron, what’s happening?” she questions. She looks at Draco to see if he can understand why Ron seems so unsettled, but he’s looking at Ron with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. When Ron tugs at her arm again, she relents and follows him. Only after they’re out of sight of snooping eyes does Ron let go of her arm, pressing his palms to his eyes. The next instant she finds Harry stationed next to her, looking strangely lost, his palm cupped over his mouth. Both boys paint a distressed picture, and Hermione’s heart begins beating faster even before they begin explaining the reason behind it, _because they’re her boys_ , _she recognises these emotions, she fought a war alongside them_ , and she knows whatever they’re about to tell her won’t be good.

“Just tell me what’s wrong. Harry? Ron? All right, one of you needs to start talking because I’m flipping and that’s never any good, right?” Her banal attempt at humour goes unchecked, which cements the foreboding feeling of doom inside her chest – Ron would never pass up an opportunity to tease her, especially one where she admitted to her neurotic nature. But neither of them respond and the building sense of panic gives way to a desperate cry - “Harry! Harry, come on, just tell me!”

Harry looks at her; looks her right in the eye for the first time in the past few minutes that she’s been here. And _oh God_ , they’re bright green and glassy and she almost doesn’t want to hear whatever he’s going to tell her, but it’s too late now, the words are tumbling out – “You can’t marry him, Hermione. He lied to you. They lied, Hermione! I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

She can’t make sense of his words, but she knows he’s being earnest. She knows her Harry, her best friend, and she knows he’s trying to spare her the pain, _but she doesn’t understand._

“What? What do you mean, he lied? Who lied? Draco? Harry, you’re not making any sense. When did Draco lie to me? Who’s they? You have to – you need to explain. Now!” But he seems incapable of putting it into words, and instead just hands her a pile of folded parchments. They look a little worn and creased, but she recognises the Malfoy family crest embossed on the top-most parchment. The pile of parchments feel thick and heavy in her hands, and for the first time in her conceivable memory, Hermione acutely does not want to read something that seems to be of grave importance.

But she’s never been one to delay the inevitable, so she unfurls the topmost parchment quickly and skims through the contents, her heart sinking with each inked word. Her eyes fill with tears, fat droplets that threaten to spill on the written words and distort them. Her eyes roam the parchment again, and snippets pop up, sending shock waves throughout her body –

_“Mother, don’t worry about me, please. I’m doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstances. It’s regrettable, but it must be done. Our family’s honour is what matters most, above all concerns. If consorting with Muggleborns is what it takes, then that is what I shall do.”_

She flips to the second one in the pile -  
_“The flowers were a bust, she absolutely hated them. She blathered on about the “futility of plucking beings and presenting someone with corpses”. Trust a Mudblood to not have the aptitude to understand the significance that flowers carry in our world.”_

Another -  
_“You were right - the swot fell head over heels when she saw the library. She’s already laid her filthy hands upon countless ancient tomes. As much as it pains me to admit it, I shall have to burn them. What a pity.”_

And another –  
_“Mother, I fear this farce has run its course. She plans to wear a Muggle gown to the Ministry Ball. A Muggle gown! It’s positively obscene, too. I daresay it’s better the Malfoy name not make an appearance at the event at all. Might I suggest you owl Tracy and request her to publish a telling piece on Granger’s sense of fashion? I can’t afford to allow her lack of class and heritage to throw my plans off.”_

And yet another, this one dated 7th February, 2003 –  
_“Things are good. Better than ever, even. Granger seems more amenable to meeting you sometime soon. I’ll let you know well in advance, so you can school yourself for this unfortunate encounter.”_

One lone letter, shorter in comparison to the others, catches her eye. Dated 12th September, 2003 -  
_“I’m taking Granger to Italy this weekend. Blaise has invited us to his villa - at my behest, of course. It’s an important opportunity. If things go well, she’ll introduce me to her parents next month.”_

Then the immediate next one –  
_“Her parents are harmless. Boring, even. However, they have the filthiest job in the world– they clean Muggles’ teeth. With their hands! I’m not quite sure I was adept at hiding my revulsion throughout dinner. Just when you think they can’t get filthier... the more you know, I suppose.”_

She can feel her head beginning to cloud over, and she knows she has scant moments before she succumbs to the pain shooting through her. She flips through the remaining ones, and starts reading the most recent ones. There’s one addressed early this year, on 25th January, 2004-  
_“She’s doing well. She’s been working long hours at the Ministry. I’m tired of this, Mother. We have to move faster.”_

10th May, 2004 –  
_“Our two year anniversary is approaching. I think it’s time.”_

And then one on 17th September, 2004 –  
_“I apologize, Mother, but it’s Granger’s birthday day after, and we’ve already planned an excursion of sorts. But I shall make sure I’m not a minute late for tea the time after that, I promise.”_

Finally, the most recent one - 25th October, 2004 -  
_“She said yes. Cue the preparations. You can finally return home, Mother. Soon.”_

She holds them tightly in her hands. She can feel the parchments tearing at the pressure, but she feels like hurting them like they’ve hurt her, so she persists. She’s so lost in this internal battle she’s waging with herself that she misses Harry moving closer to her. He gently grasps her hands and unfurls them from the fists they’ve clenched into, until her grip on the parchments slackens.

His eyes are focused intently at her the entire time - like she’s a wild animal who’ll skitter away at the slightest prodding. It is this more than anything else that spurs her into action. She’ll be damned if anyone thinks she’s a fragile little girl. She fought Voldemort, for Merlin’s sake! This was nothing. _Nothing_.

She meets Harry’s eyes and those familiar green orbs soothe her and flay her simultaneously. She can feel the tears slipping out already. She knows her body’s having a delayed reaction – she’ll delve into hysterics soon. But as long as she’s lucid, she needs to make the most of it.

Without waiting for either of them to say a word, she turns back the way she came and marches on, her vision focused on finding him. She can faintly hear Harry and Ron calling her name and even grasping at her elbows, but she keeps jutting them back and marches on.

She finds him almost exactly where she left him, smirking and chatting, his left hand deep in the pocket of his expensive robes, the other clutching a chute of elf wine delicately. His eyes hone in on her as soon as she enters his peripheral vision. Even from afar, it’s obvious she’s upset; he visibly steels himself for her wrath, and she imagines he’s expecting her ire over a place setting gone wrong or a Pureblood guest acting unruly. He probably wasn’t expecting her to stomp over and clap a handful of parchments against his sternum. In fact, she’s positively convinced that he never expected her to find these particular letters, given how stricken he looks upon recognizing them.

“Did you write these letters?” she demands of him. Her eyes are spitting fire, her lips barely moving. She’s aware of the throngs of people gathered around who are slowly but steadily turning their attention to them – particularly the ones watching the drama unfurl and taking vicious pleasure in her downfall – and she doesn’t want them to know exactly how her heart is breaking in a thousand ways right at this very moment. She might not have the delicate sensibilities to do this more privately, but she’ll be damned if she does it loudly too. They could draw their own conclusions; she would not provide them with a single word of hers.

“Granger-”

“Did you or did you not write these letters?”

He remains silent, grey eyes glinting like steel. She looks into those eyes for a whole minute, and then there’s a flurry of movement –

“You son of a bitch-”

“Mr. Weasley! Get your hands off my son right-”

She can’t see anything but his eyes – _grey, grey, unflinching grey-_

“Ron! What the hell is going on? Harry-”

There’s a buzzing sound in her ears -

“Oi! Mate! Calm down-”

Whispers erupting, the sick sound of bone meeting flesh-

“Hermione! Where are you-”

The last thing she sees before she disapparates is  
_grey, grey, grey._

* * *

 

In that moment, as she met Draco's unflinching grey eyes, all she could remember was her mother's words, whispered to her after the night's storm had flattened the sapling she had spent weeks nurturing-

_"Because that’s the funny thing, honey - you can spend years and years growing a plant, but one storm, one cut, one pluck - and it’s all gone."_

It's all gone.


	2. Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! This one's short too, because I've written it all in one go, but expect future chapters to be much longer.

December, 2004:

The first place her disjointed mind takes her to is a wintry Forest of Dean. She lands unceremoniously and the unforgiving chilly weather feels like an attack on all her senses. It takes her a minute to recognize her surroundings, and the only reason she even does is because her subconscious mind has taken her to the exact spot where she’d tied her bright red scarf to an ageing pine tree, hoping Ron would recognize it as hers when he inevitably came searching for them. But that minute is enough for her lungs to begin wheezing as they work hard to breathe in and out, and she feels like her brain is numbing over. She realizes faintly that the dress robes she’s currently wearing make for a pretty picture, but stand paltry in the face of gruesome weather. She could cast a warming charm and wander about, but she _needs_ to find a place where she can think in solitude. She knows her mind is grasping at patterns and familiarity to reground itself. She also knows the Forest of Dean is the first place Harry would think to look. He knows her mind as well as she does, and she can’t face him or anyone else right now.

So she puts her mind to task and Apparates once more. This time she finds herself in another forest, the trees looming above her, the wind still whipping at her and crushing her lungs. Another forest off her Horcrux hunt sojourn then. She can’t identify this one, and wastes no time trying to. Another flick of her wand and she’s off again.

This time she appears on a crowded street in what appears to be a busy city square. But this won’t do either. She repeats the process –

A park –

A bus stop –

An outcrop overlooking an angry sea –

The churchyard in Godric’s Hollow –

The next pop lands her squarely in sift dewy grass and she’s immediately winded by the howling wind of the angry seaside. She scrambles back up and looks about to see if she can recognize where she is. She can see she’s landed on a grassy cliff overlooking an angry sea underneath it. All she can see around her is miles and miles of water. She wracks her brain trying to remember if she’s been here before, but her mind is clouded. The weather is as brutal here as in the forest, the wind and water teaming up to freeze her body, and she quickly casts a warming charm. Her body is visibly shrinking in on itself as an instinctual way of self-preservation –

_Ha, where has your self-preservation been all these months?_

No. Not yet. She has to find some solid ground before she allows herself to think of what has just transpired.

She trods down the narrow clifftop and situates herself at the end. Underneath her is a wide expanse of sea, and she can see the water crashing against the rockface of the cliff. The water is a cerulean blue and her mind immediately recognizes her surroundings - Skrinkle Haven Beach. She’s only been her once before – with Ginny, of all people. It was right after she and Harry had broken up, and Ginny was on a mission to reinvent herself; a mission that included a lot of physical excursions such as hiking and camping. Ron had given up after one hike, claiming inherent laziness and an aversion to wildlife sojourns after their year-long Horcrux expedition. Luna and Neville had proven to be too distracted by the abundant wildlife to actually pay Ginny any attention. Hermione, however, had not had the heart to say no and had thus become Ginny’s de facto hiking buddy on the regular. This particular one had struck a chord with her – the serene beach had transformed into a beast all of a sudden, forcing them to Apparate out instead of hike back. She’d always planned to get Draco here with her one day –

Well, clearly that would never happen now.

And just like that, with that one thought, the floodgates holding her thoughts at bay open and her mind is clouded with the day’s happenings. Visions obscure her rational thought and her mind recounts the events –

_The letters, Draco’s face, Ron’s face, the harsh mutterings all around them, the mid-evening sun shining down upon them, Draco looking at her pensively, Ginny’s flaming hair, the penmanship in the letters –_

Her chest hurts and her eyes are tearing up and her head is pounding and she _can’t breathe_. She distantly realises she might be having a panic attack of sorts, so she tries focusing her vision on the spot right in front of her – the horizon is a canvas of orange and pink hues and it calms her down and lets her regulate her breathing. She can feel her gut churning and her pulse jumping. She knows she needs to think and understand, but she’s so scared to open that stream again. Unbidden, an image of Draco’s stricken face comes to mind again. Her heart jumps. Her brain realigns everything it observed in those few seconds:

There’s no doubt Draco wrote those letters because she recognizes his penmanship acutely.

His response to the sight of the letters wasn’t confusion, but recognition.

He hadn’t questioned her on the contents. He hadn’t said anything, in fact, but a meagre “Granger”, like that could ever explain _anything._

If he weren’t guilty he would have put up a fight that very instant, she knows-

But does she? Know him?

Which version of him does she know? Is he still a Pureblood supremacist? Did he still think her to be beneath him? To be a _filthy Mudblood_? Is he the same Draco, in reality, that he purported himself to be in his relationship with her? Did they even have a relationship? Can a farce be termed a relationship? Merlin, was she ever even truly engaged? What does this make her then? What was lies? Was anything true?

She knows she has to allow him a chance to explain himself, if only because she has a hundred questions that need answering too. She’s still reeling from what has happened and her mind is still clouded, but she knows she needs to understand what happened. Was all of it a lie, then? Have the past two and half years of her life been a lie too, then? What about her love, though? Does that also automatically become a lie now? What are the rules governing deceit and love?

Her mind is running amok with questions and thoughts, but the glaring truth amidst all the obvious lies is this –

Draco Malfoy lied to her. He manipulated her. He possibly never loved her.

So where does this leave her now?

And just like that, her body finally catches up with her brain, and she’s dissolving into huge sobs before she can even heave a breath. Her face is smeared with tears and her mascara has most definitely run and her lungs are wheezing, her chest is heaving, her body is physically cowering into itself. She can barely hear the wind over her own sobbing, her throat is already hurting from the strain of gulping in the harsh air as she cries, her entire body is shivering.

She feels constricted, like a python is coiling its way around her throat. She needs to breathe and this goddamn collar won’t let her! These stupid dress robes, that she was forced to wear as a compromise, because Narcissa wished so.

_“Come on, Granger, they’re just dress robes. If you accede on this occasion, she’ll stop harping on about your Muggle dress for the wedding, so consider this an even trade-off.”_

_“That’s ridiculous! Why do I have to compromise?”_

_“Well, haven’t you heard? Relationships are all about compromise, love. Just as I compromise when it comes to that monstrosity you call a cat – Ow! I was kidding!”_

Compromise, he had claimed. These dress robes were a compromise. No matter that the high stiff neckline made her feel suffocated, that the tight bodice restricted her breathing, that the robes allowed for minimal free movement.

She has to take them off. Now. She can’t breathe, and she needs them off, now!

She starts clawing desperately at the neckline, but the material is too rich and finely stitched to give way under her shaking fingers. She can feel her body seizing up again, her lungs are struggling to take in the next breath, her vision is clouding over again –

The next second a pair of warm arms are around her, trying to pull her hands away from her throat, away from the collar which is _suffocating her so-_

“Hermione! Hermione, stop!”

“Get it off! Get this off, now! I can’t breathe - get it fucking off!” She knows she’s screaming and shrieking, her voice breaking with the colossal effort. She’s vaguely aware that she’s devolving into hysterics, her body and mind lost to the sensations she’s feeling right now.

“Hermione, just hold still for a second! I’m trying, but I can’t – you need to hold still – stop moving!”

The next second she hears a loud rip and she takes in a lungful of air, and another and another, until her head feels less woozy and her sight clears.

“You’re fine, you’re fine, Hermione, you’re fine, I’ve got you, I’m here. Just calm down, breathe with me, okay? Breathe slowly -”

She sees the burning sky in front of her, the swirling tides beneath her, the strong arms wrapped around her torso, her dress robes in tatters at her feet.

Her knees give way and she sinks to the grass. The body behind her sinks with her and she burrows herself into Harry’s embrace. He smells like he always does – clean Muggle detergent and a hint of peppermint. She lets his scent cloud her senses and works on taking in deep, even breaths.

She feels at home, and right now, this minute, that’s enough.

* * *

 

“How did you know I’d be here?”

She’s seated beside Harry, both of them shivering despite the multiple warming charms they’ve vast upon themselves. The ruins of her dress robes are scattered in the waters below her, moving with the ebb and flow. She’s swathed in a shirt that Harry transfigured for her out of his tuxedo jacket. It smells like him too, and she derives comfort from this.

“I’m an Auror, Hermione. It’s my job to find people who don’t want to be found.”

She gives him a look that conveys her disbelief.

“I Apparated to six different places before I landed here. You’ve never even been here, and I’m fairly sure you’ve never even heard of this place. So, again, how did you know I’d be here? Did Ginny tell you?”

“I told you – I’m an Auror. I wouldn’t be a very good Auror if I hadn’t put a tracking spell on your wand.”

“When did you put a tracking spell – Oh. When you saw me leave, presumably?”

Harry nods sheepishly. She knows it’s a violation of her privacy, and unlawful, even, but she knows his heart was in the right place. That doesn’t mean she won’t tell him off, though.

“I cannot even begin to tell you how many laws you’re breaking by casting unauthorized tracking spells on the wands of innocent people, Harry.”

“I’m sure you’ll muster up the strength to tell me exactly how illegitimate my actions were, Hermione, but you know I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You would too.”

She looks at him, and she sees the worry in his eyes, the way his fingers are trembling to hold her again, to physically take away her sorrow. She knows he probably feels helpless right now. Harry has never been the best with words, but his heart is so pure, and so filled with love, that she feels like she should let him know that his presence is enough; it always has been.

“Thank you for being here.”

“Hermione, where else would I be?”

She can feel her heart – fractured little thing that it is right now – bursting with affection for this little lost boy sitting beside her. She can’t possibly express any of this right now though; she’s too weary and battleworn already. So she settles for simply squeezing his hand once, trying to convey just how much she appreciates him.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I can live at Grimmauld Place for a few days?”

“Sure. As long as you promise not to terrorize Kreacher – don’t laugh! I’m serious! He went on a hunger strike the last time you tried to liberate him. I had to feed him pumpkin soup myself for three days, Hermione. Do you know how exhausting that is? I’m serious, stop laughing-”

But he’s laughing too and she sees his eyes crinkling up and she feels lighter, like her heart isn’t caving in on itself. She knows reality will return any minute, so she’s glad for the respite.

They spend the next hour just sitting on the grassy outcrop, gazing into the sky and watching night fall across the turbulent landscape. When Harry stands up, she follows suit. They Apparate into Grimmauld Place, he unlocks the door, and Hermione makes a beeline to the room she’s always claimed as her own in this house. Her body is mind-numbingly tired and she feels like she could sleep for days on end. She collapses on the bed, without even bothering to undress or change into something more comfortable. She’s asleep within the minute.

* * *

 

A distant sound wakes her up; her senses are still foggy with sleep, it’s still dark out – did she sleep through all of the next day? She hears the same sound again, almost like little knocks, and diverts her gaze to the origin of the sound – the glass windows, beyond which she can barely make out the silhouette of an owl.

Her stomach instantly fills with dread. She climbs out of bed, opens the window, and pats the majestic looking owl once on the head, before retrieving the scroll tied to its leg. It flies away, hooting into the night sky. She chances a look at the Muggle alarm clock that she’s always kept beside any bed that she regularly sleeps in – 2:07 am. The same day. She’s been asleep for roughly 7 hours now.

She opens the scroll. It’s a scrap of a parchment, really. She feels gratified, she hadn’t expected much else from Draco. At least she was right on one count then, when it came to him. It’s very brief, but it twists her stomach into knots regardless.

_“Give me a chance to explain. Please.”_

That’s all is says. No diatribes of apologies, or regrets, or even remorse. _Not even one sorry_.

Explain what, exactly? The facts are clear – he lied to her, he used her, he never loved her. Would the hows and whys really change anything?

She doesn’t know. She feels like she doesn’t know much of anything anymore. It’s a bitter pill for someone like her to swallow, someone who prides herself on being self-aware and generally conscious of everything around her.

She crumples the note up and goes back to bed, hoping sleep will claim her once again.

The last conscious thought ringing through her head is this –

_How do you un-love someone who doesn’t exist?_

She doesn’t know.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to all of you!


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can offer are my apologies and my words. 
> 
> Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter or the characters. They belong, as always, to the incredible J.K. Rowling.

December, 2004:

It’s been two days since the engagement party; since her world came crashing down. Rationally, Hermione knows this isn’t the end of the world and that much worse things have happened to far better people. But her mind is constantly foggy and she can’t seem to think clearly and _when did getting out of bed get this hard_?

She’s vaguely certain it’s evening. The curtains to her room have been drawn since she first holed herself up in this bed and the darkness makes it hard to determine what time of day it is. But the last meal Harry brought in for her was some pumpkin soup and toast. Remnants of the bread are scattered over her blanket and the only feeling that’s more prominent than her shame is her own disgust at her greasy hair and unwashed body, the stale scent permeating her nostrils.

She had never really understood why people couldn’t take care of themselves when they went through something traumatic -why they couldn’t eat or bathe or step out for fresh air. She spent almost a year living as an outlaw in forests with two teenage boys, and the three of them still managed to stay hygienic and healthy, as far as possible.

But she understands now. She understands exactly why people wallow and mope. It’s comforting, more than anything else. It’s comfortable to stay burrowed deep in the covers of her bed, with no light or company. She’d prefer to eat, but she just isn’t hungry. Everything makes her feel vaguely nauseous. She thinks of drawing a bath and submerging herself in warm water instead of stale sheets, but just the thought of moving tires her.

The fact is that she knows better than to devolve into this sorry state of being. She knows it’s doing her no favours, that eventually she’s going to have to leave the bed and the sheets and the silence and face the music. Eventually, her own need for answers is going to drive her mad.

But right this minute, all she can think about is her own stupidity. She’s so _very_ stupid. Monumentally stupid, some might say.

Who said she knew the ways of the world? How dare she let herself believe she knew what the best way to deal with grief was?

People are allowed to wallow, and be sad, and be entirely unproductive, if they choose to be so. There’s no _smart_ way to grieve. How _stupid_ of her, to think she knew everything.

She knows nothing. Least of all, herself.

 

* * *

 

She’s freshly showered and clean, dressed in Harry’s jumper and a pair of his sweats. The neck of his jumper keeps sliding off of her shoulder, but Harry’ always been on the smaller side, so the clothes fit her far better than Ron’s ever would.

Ron sits beside her on her bed, his own cup of tea warming his left hand, while the fingers of his right hand pull at a loose thread on her blanket. Her own hands are warming themselves on her cup, gripping the fine china tight.

“I just feel so lost. I keep trying to think about what happened, and why, and how, and then it becomes this loop of never-ending thoughts. Why would he do this? What could he possibly gain from it? His mother received a full pardon, he received a full pardon, his father’s dead – why do this? His mother has every right to enter the country and live wherever she wishes to; she’s still a British citizen, they have their Manor, they have money. I just don’t understand why he did this. It doesn’t add up.

“And that’s just the motive part of it. I just – I can’t believe any of this. I keep feeling like this is a nightmare and I’ll wake up and find him next to me and just – how can this be real? I mean, what was real? That’s the worst part, I think. It’s not just that he lied to me and deceived me – that’s horrible, I know, but it’s so much more than that! I just can’t seem to figure out what was real. I mean, clearly, his feelings for me weren’t real. Not the good ones, at least. But mine were – are? I still love the version of him that I fell in love with. How am I supposed to not? How do I differentiate between the truth and the lies when I don’t even know what the truth is? Is he still a Pureblood supremacist? Does he still believe in all that bullshit? What, he still called me a Mudblood in his head-”

“Hermione. Don’t.”

“ _No_ , Ron! I need to know! I can’t just keeping wallowing like this, right? At some point I’m going to have to figure out what to do and how to face him, but every time I think of how to solve this, I just come up blank!”

Ron’s been silent since she first started speaking. His hand has shifted from pulling at the thread to tapping at his cup. She’s always known him to be restless and fidgety. She loves that about him. She wants to spend her life cocooned in his warmth and a small part of her wants to let him fight her battles for her. She knows he would. Harry’s her best friend, her rock. But Ron’s known her in ways Harry never has. He’s known her and loved her for it, and a part of her will always be in love with Ron Weasley, she knows this. Harry would respect her need for space, while leaving her food and clothes to let her know he’s there for her. Ron just barged in with two cups of tea, plopped down next to her in bed and told her she was perilously close to breaking Charlie’s record of 20 hours of straight sleep after he’d returned from a 20-day sojourn to Asutralia to look for the Antipodean Opaleye. She’d made a straight beeline for the bathroom and only returned once she was sure she’s scrubbed the days’ worth of grime off her herself. Ron had still been waiting, two more cups of tea in his hands, long legs spread out along the bed and falling off the edge. He looked like home and Hermione had climbed in right next to him and let his warmth wash over her. No, a part of her would always love Ron Weasley and his warm hugs and large hands.

“But you don’t have to solve this, Hermione.”

What?

“What? Of course I do, I need to know why he did this-”

“Yeah, no, I get that. What I mean is, you don’t need to have this figured out by yourself, you know? This isn’t something you can just – _fix_.”

She opens her mouth to ask him exactly what he means by that, but he’s still speaking, and she’s almost taken aback at the conviction in his voice.

“You’ve always been a fixer, you know? Throughout Hogwarts, during the war, even after. You’ve always taken care of us; of me. But sometimes you don’t need to have all the answers, you know? You just need to let the chips fall where they may, I guess. Sometimes, you just need to let things happen. Not try and fix them, or solve them, or figure out why they happened, I think.”

“I don’t have a compulsive need to fix things!”

“Well, you kind of do. You and Harry both do. His is just more on a macro-level, I guess. Yours is more, um, concentrated?”

“Sure, I like solving problems, but that’s because I want to help the ones I love, not because I have some strange need to coddle people.”

“Hermione, I’m just saying, maybe you just need to accept what happened instead of trying to resolve it. Just, be honest with yourself, and feel what you’re feeling. Sometimes it’s enough to just be, you know? Just, breathe it out and let it go. You don’t _have_ to solve it immediately. You can choose not to. I mean, even if his feelings were all a lie, even if he’s still the same wanker that he was- what difference does it make? It doesn’t mean your love for him wasn’t true. You loved a version of him that deserved your love, and that’s it. You can only really control your own actions, not his. It doesn’t matter if he was real or not – not when it’s a question of what you felt for him. All that matters is that what you felt, what you feel, is real. It’s not predicated upon his truth. Why do you have to choose to be miserable about what you felt?. So just feel what you want to, I guess. There’s no expiry date on grief. You’re devastated, and you’re allowed to feel devastated. I just think you should know that.”

For a minute all Hermione can do is gape at him. She’s a little thrown at how astute Ron’s remarks are. It’s true that she’s always liked fixing things, but that’s just the way she’s wired. She never thought she could _choose_ to not be that way.

“So you’re saying I should just _not_ think about any of this?”

Ron sighs, his arm falling around her shoulders and hugging her to his side, his breath ghosting over the side of her temple, “I’m saying, if you want answers, there’s only one person who can give them to you. But it’s okay for you to just feel and not do anything right now. You don’t need to fix anything by yourself.”

Her eyes seek out the little scrap of parchment that’s half-hidden beneath her pillow and she swallows the urge to read it again.

She rests her head on Ron’s shoulder and lets the familiar contours of his body soothe her broken heart for a while. Soon he will leave and take his warmth with him. She wants to savour every bit of comfort that she can.

“Did I ever do that to you? Make you feel like a problem that I had to solve?” she asks him. Now that he’s brought this up, she’s curious to know just exactly how intimately he’s felt this.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’d just want to vent to you about something, but you’d immediately start giving me solutions instead. Sometimes you did things I didn’t want done for me. I just wanted you to be there, you know? Just give me a hug, maybe. I didn’t always need saving. But your heart’s always been in the right place. I know that too. So don’t sweat it, okay?”

“Ron, I’m so sorry. I never thought-”

“Hey, how about another cup of tea, huh? We’ll make Harry brew this batch. I think he’ll combust if he doesn’t see you breathing with his own two eyes”, Ron says, moving to get out of her bed, his warmth leaving with him. She stares at this boy for a few seconds more. This boy who she’d first given her heart to, at the tender age of fourteen; this boy who’s always guarded it with the utmost care and compassion, who’s loved her fiercely as a lover and a friend for as long as she’s known him. She looks at him and she’s sure that not all her choices have been poor. For as long as she lives, she’ll be ever so thankful to have chosen to love him and feel loved by him, for as brief as a period as it was. She knows it’s still awkward for him to talk to her about why they broke up. They just had one day, after realising they were losing all the things they loved about each other because of the constant fighting. She knows it’s still uncomfortable for him to speak to her about their problems, so she lets him change the topic and plead off this conversation. She owes him at least that.

“So I’m a fixer, huh? You know, Ron, that was really brilliant of you.”

“Well, I _was_ due”, he says, grinning at her, his eyes crinkling like they always did, bright blue and warm.

They go down to the kitchen where Harry does a double take upon seeing her and puts a fresh pot of tea on. He has papers scattered all around him, the Daily Prophet strewn across the table. She goes straight to him and hugs him while Ron begins munching on some cookies and fiddles with the radio. She feels Harry’s arms around her, feels him let out breath of relief, feels his body lose the tension that has probably been set in for days now. As she rests her head on his shoulder, she spots the front page of the Daily Prophet and sees her a moving photograph of herself turning and Disapparating, while people all around her look visibly shocked. Every time she Disapparates and disappears from the frame, a pale hand stretches out towards her, missing her by inches. She doesn’t need to read the headline to know it’s about her doomed relationship.

She just squeezes Harry a little tighter and averts her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Ron leaves after a while and Harry leaves with him, mumbling something about wanting to meet Arthur to discuss some changes to the model airplane they’re building together. Hermione knows it’s just to buy her some alone time.

She steps out and walks along the street and then gives up when the cold becomes too much for her to bear. She spots a familiar owl lounging by the roof of Grimmauld Place. She steadfastly ignores it and hurries back inside. She cooks a curry for dinner and then goes back to the safety of her room and writes a few letters.

One to her parents, telling them she’s fine and that she’ll drop by to explain everything tomorrow.

One to Molly and Arthur, assuring them she’s doing all right.

One to her boss at work, apologising for her unplanned absence from work, and assuring him she’ll be in tomorrow.

She borrows Harry’s owl to send them off.

At some point Harry returns and they eat dinner in comfortable silence. She tells him she’s returning to work tomorrow and that she intends to move back to her flat by the end of the week. She just needs to pack Draco’s things and send them to the Manor. Her heart hurts when she speaks his name aloud but she feels silly for that so she makes a mental note to speak it aloud in the solitude of her room later. Harry just nods along and then abruptly summons a bottle of wine that her parents had gifted him a few weeks back  and pours out generous portions for them both.

They’ve finished the bottle of wine when they finally go to bed.

Before Hermione hits the bed, she sets the alarm clock for six the next morning, brushes her teeth, transfigures an old pair of Harry’s sweats into slacks and a shirt that she can wear to work tomorrow and then writes one last letter.

She leans out of the window of her room and her eyes search the gutters next to her window until she finds two beady eyes staring back at her. She holds her arm out with the scrap of parchment, not even bothering to roll it. Zeus flies down to her and plucks the parchment from her fingers, emitting a single hoot. She trails a finger over his head, and stands back and watches him fly away gracefully into the cold night for all of a minute. Eventually, her body catches up with her brain and it’s all she can do to even toe her slippers off before she hits the bed. She falls asleep in minutes.

 

* * *

  

Miles and miles away, in a looming Manor, a lone figure reads a scrap of parchment with just seven words scribbled on it. Tit for tat.

_Friday, 2 p.m., Painshill Park. By the bridge._

If he's surprised by the lack of words, Draco Malfoy doesn't show it. He knows this is more than he deserves. 

He slips into his bed, determined to catch a few hours of sleep. 

He shuts his eyes. He sees her disappear. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's still reading and interested in this story, I'm extremely sorry for the unexplained absence. Life got hectic and I learnt I'm not as good at managing my time as I thought I was. 
> 
> This story has not been abandoned, I promise. I will try to update as soon and as often as I can. 
> 
> Much love.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. First and foremost, I was visiting Sri Lanka when the blasts happened. I was horrified by the destruction and loss of life, but even more so because of the nature of the attacks. I was safe and escaped harm, but countless others didn't. Please join me in sending a prayer (not necessarily religious, even something like good vibes will count) and some hope their way, and let's work towards making this world more tolerant. 
> 
> For anyone who's still reading, I'm sorry for the delay (as always). Also, I've changed the timeline by a few years, so I had to edit the previously posted chapters to reflect the new timeline. To clarify, the present day events now take place in 2004, which leaves the characters at about 24-25 years of age.
> 
> So this chapter does not pick up where the last one left off. This one is like a flashback, of sorts. I don't plan on writing too many of these, but I thought a filler chapter would be apt, to explain the dynamics of their relationship.
> 
> Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter or the characters. They belong, as always, to the incredible J.K. Rowling.

November, 2001:

She’s rushing out of the little Muggle cafe on the corner of the street containing the entrance to the Ministry of Magic, her morning cup of tea clutched in her hand, and a paper bag with a croissant in the other, when she runs smack into another body.

She begins apologising intuitively, “Oh, I’m sor-”, and stops mid-way when she looks up and realises just who she’s run into.

Draco Malfoy looms large in front of her, his face impassive and blank. Only his slightly flared nostrils indicate his annoyance. He seems to be waiting for something, his eyebrows hitching expectantly, and Hermione realises with a pang that she’s yet to complete her apology. She knows she should apologise and excuse herself, that it’s the decent thing to do, but every bone and nerve ending in her entire being is pulsing with revulsion at the thought of apologising to Draco Malfoy, Prat Extraordinaire.

Malfoy’s indifferent veneer cracks, and his face briefly twists into an ever-familiar sneer. Hermione waits with bated breath for him to take a dig at her heritage, maybe criticise her lack of manners and ill-breeding, _a consequence of your Mudblood heritage_ , she is sure he will say, and her eyes narrow into slits too, waiting for his remark.

But Malfoy seems to deflate before her very eyes, his curled lips flatten out, his narrowed eyes even out, and he is the visage of indifference once again. He lets out a small puff of air, one of his hands gently push her aside by the shoulders, and just like that he disappears into the cafe behind her.

She is surprised, righteous, angry; but most of all, she’s curious. She contemplates marching in there and confronting him about his docile behaviour. Surely, he’s up to something. She hasn’t seen him since his trial two years back, and even then he was stoic and stiff. He had thanked her and Harry for speaking in his favour at  his trial, a stiff nod and “thank you, Potter, Granger”, looking for all the world like he’s rather die than thank them, and had walked out, his mother trailing behind him. Narcissa Malfoy, who had been acquitted a couple of months before Draco, had looked back at her and Harry once, and nodded too. The brief, awkward interaction was still more than what she and Harry had expected, and they had shared an incredulous laugh at the bizarre world they now lived in, where Malfoys were contrite. A few months after that,  Lucius Malfoy had passed away in Azkaban, and the Malfoys had purportedly moved to France. “ _Au revoir Malfoys– escape or self-imposed exile?”,_ the headline of the Prophet had read, accompanied with a photograph of Draco and Narcissa Malfoy entering the Minsitry of Magic, while being swarmed by photographers. Ron had muttered “good riddance”, Harry had looked at the photograph for a beat too long and then shrugged and looked away. She, herself, had felt a sense of headiness at the idea that they had been driven to leave a world that they always saw fit to deprive her of. She’d thought that would be the last she’d ever see of them.

And now, Draco Malfoy was visiting a Muggle cafe, right next to her place of work, entering her personal space, and he was being _civil_. He had touched her voluntarily, for Christ’s sake!

The door opens behind her again, and she turns around half-expecting it to be Malfoy. But it’s not; it’s a middle—aged woman that leaves the cafe, her coat billowing behind her and a Styrofoam cup clutched in her hand. This shakes her out of her stupor, and Hermione Granger leaves the cafe and makes her way to the telephone booth that serves as a hidden entrance to the Ministry of Magic. As her day progresses, she decides to floo into work instead of using the booth. It’s more efficient, she decides, and it has the advantage of protecting her from running into people she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to waste a single moment more in pondering Malfoy’s motives. She’s thrown off by his presence in London, that’s all. She reminds herself that he doesn’t work at the Ministry, _God knows_ they don’t run in the same circles, and there’s no reason why they would ever have to interact again. _It’s fine_ , she thinks. _It’s all fine._

* * *

She sees Malfoy increasingly over the next few months.

He works as a curse-breaker at Gringotts, and visits the Ministry often. He works closely with several department on cases that require advisory and precautionary opinions. Her role at the DMLE requires her to liaise with Gringotts curse-breakers  often enough that she’s aware she can’t avoid him forever. But he surprises her yet again. He’s professional and aloof, and exacting in his work. She’s on edge the whole meeting, expecting him to make a snide remark or utter a slur against her, but in vain. He had entered the room right on time, inspected the cursed jewellery box and jotted down notes, briefed her and her colleague of his findings, fixed a date for another meeting, and had left with a muttered goodbye. He had addressed her occasionally, but hadn’t met her eyes the entire time. She hadn’t asked a single question. After he had left, she had berated herself for doing a shoddy job. It had been so _unprofessional_ of her. She’ll be damned if she lets a git like Malfoy affect her performance at her job.

The next time he comes in, she questions  him mercilessly. He answers all her questions and finishes his inspection. Right before leaving, he had looked her in the eyes, and said “Next time you want to test my abilities Granger, do inform me beforehand. It’ll save me the bother of answering pointless questions.” She had flushed, her eyes shooting daggers at him, but he had just smirked softly and walked out.

After a dozen or so such meetings, she realises Malfoy is smart, and good at his job, to boot. He’s efficient, capable, and always delivers good results. She still quizzes him though, and despite his annoyance, he still answers.

At some point, their discussions meander from the cursed object at hand to the theories of magical relativity, wards and curse-breaking. They debate frequently, and trade insults just as often. He never crosses the line; she toes it regularly. It becomes her personal goal to break his impassivity.

He asks her out for coffee on a warm summer afternoon in May, two spots of colour blooming high on his cheekbones, the ends of his ears tinged red. When she says yes, he looks her in the eye, and his smile is soft, and his hands are clammy. They go to the Muggle cafe next to the Ministry, the very same one where she ran into him months and months back. The conversation is stilted and awkward at first, but then he asks to expound on the fallacies in Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, and she’s rambling away. They fight on several aspects. She’s flushed and wound up as he finishes the last of his tea, her own coffee lying cold, having been abandoned half-way. While she’s still angrily pointing out why body parts cursed by Dark Magic should not be an exception to the law, he wordlessly casts a warming charm on her coffee and pushes it into her hands. The slight jolt that runs through her when their fingertips brush throws her off; she doesn’t even tell him off for using magic in front of Muggles.

At the end of their date, he walks with her to the Apparition point, and just as she’s leaving he touches the fingertips of her left hand again, and ghosts a soft kiss over her right cheek. He’s gone when she opens her eyes.

* * *

 

She falls in love with him frighteningly quickly.

It’s not the kind of all-consuming love she felt for Ron in her tender teenage years, or the steady love she felt for Anthony Goldstein when they dated briefly after her epic romance with Ron crumbled to dust.

It’s more heady, more concentrated on the gaps and silences. He’s not always affectionate, and rarely in public. But his body covers hers in bed, his eyes are piercing grey, and she feels safe and secure in his arms. He fights with her on everything, agrees with her on very little, and makes her laugh all the time.

He gives her a lot of space; too much, sometimes. She misses him when he’s not around, and he never asks her about her plans, or tells her about his. He’s mysterious, but when he’s with her, he gives her his undivided attention, and is interested in everything she does and says, if only to spar with her on each of those points. He mocks her relentlessly, on a large spectrum of things; but on the days she returns home weary of the world and its demands of her, he brews a pot of chamomile tea, hands her whatever book is on her nightstand, cooks dinner, and when they go to bed he fucks her mercilessly, and she’s thankful for the reprieve from reality.

It’s not soft or harsh – their love. It floats somewhere in between, and this is what makes it feel all the more real. There are days where they just eat dinner and go to bed, sleeping on their respective sides. They don’t cuddle, don’t touch. It feels domestic, like they’ve both grown so much, while choosing to love each other and be committed to each other.

She feels, for the first time, that her life makes sense.

When it all unravels on a cold evening in December in 2004, after Draco Malfoy breaks her heart, she mourns the loss of their love, their life together. And she wonders if her quest to break Draco Malfoy’s impassivity was the catalyst of her own heartbreak.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extremely sorry for the ultra-long absence. Real life isn't always great, and my job keeps me too busy to write. That said, I'm extremely grateful to anyone who chooses to read this story. Your comments and interest warm my heart.
> 
> As always, reviews encourage me and make me feel guilty enough that I stop procrastinating and write the next chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions. Hit me up!
> 
> I'm not sure this story will be wrapped up in 7 chapters now, but it's yet to be determined exactly how long it will be. Hopefully I'll be able to push another chapter out this week.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates depend entirely on when I finish writing them. But it'll be 7 chapters in entirety and no longer. 
> 
> Much love.


End file.
